Death Rides the Surf (10 page)

Jennifer had jumped
out of her chair and verbally lashed out at Nick, making him very angry and her mother-in-law very nervous. A suspect, even an innocent suspect, shouldn’t accuse the detective in charge of the murder investigation of being an intimidating boor.

“Sit down, Mrs. Kennedy.” Carbone spoke softly. He must be furious. His tone frightened Kate.

Jennifer sat. He must have frightened her, too.

Katharine twisted her handkerchief into knots. All color had drained from the girl’s face and she was staring at her mother as if she’d never seen her before.

“Ladies, I have asked you all here together so you can tell me, and maybe each other, what you’ve been up to and why.” Carbone sighed.

Jennifer flushed and turned away from Kate’s scrutiny.

“Some of your collective and individual behavior has been baffling. Now, Mrs. Kennedy,” the detective said, addressing Jennifer, “would you like to tell me your version of that luncheon conversation with Roberto Romero or shall I go with his, which indicated you’d found him hot and had used Jon Michael as an excuse to get to know him better?”

“That bastard,” Jennifer stammered. Kate had never heard her daughter-in-law use that sort of language or sound so ruffled. “I wanted to talk to him about Acapulco. I believe Roberto, Jon Michael, and that other boy, Claude Jensen, had something to do with Amanda Rowling’s disappearance. I knew those surfers were no good and Katharine was involved with them. I’d hired a private detective. They all had dicey pasts. For God’s sake, Claude’s been in jail and his father’s an ax murderer. Roberto’s a gigolo. I was worried about what might happen to my daughter.” She faltered, seeming incapable of going on. The strain showed on her face.

Katharine hung her head, her face ashen, her eyes filed with tears, her shame almost palpable.

Jennifer Lowell Kennedy, stockbroker extraordinaire, society fund-raiser, perfect hostess, devoted wife and mother, looked haggard and helpless.

It made Kate mad. “Stop!” she shouted at Nick. “Enough.”

The detective rolled his chair back and stood up. “This is a murder investigation, Kate. I’d think you of all people would want to hear the truth.”

Why, because she was the widow of a homicide detective and she’d dabbled in detecting herself? How dare Nick use that rationale to tear her family asunder? Or could Nick be on the right track? Maybe she didn’t want to know the truth.

“No, Kate. Let me finish,” Jennifer said. “I want it all out, every lie, every evasion, and every motive. Then maybe Detective Carbone will look for the real killer and leave our family alone.”

Nick sat back down. “I’m listening.”

“I arrived in Fort Lauderdale late Sunday afternoon and checked into the Boca Raton Hotel. I had no client here. I met with the private detective I’d hired on Grace Rowling’s recommendation. I knew Katharine had fallen for Jon Michael in Acapulco and was still obsessed with him. I wanted to learn all I could about the Four Boardsmen. So I’d called Grace, who was convinced that Jon Michael had harmed her daughter—she couldn’t accept that Amanda was probably dead—and that Claude and Roberto had lied to protect him.”

Katharine groaned, lifting her head for a moment to give her mother a filthy look.

“The detective told me about Jon Michael’s and Roberto’s midnight surf rides. He’d suspected they might be running drugs, but he couldn’t figure out how.” Jennifer waved her right hand toward Nick. “Now we know.”

Nick nodded, his face remaining noncommittal, but somehow seeming to acknowledge Jennifer’s giving him credit.

“I went to the beach Sunday night to spy on Jon Michael and Roberto. Roberto turned out to be a no-show and, to my surprise, Katharine was there, quarreling with Jon Michael. Little did I know that my mother-in-law had a balcony seat for the entire scene.” Jennifer smiled. A weak smile to be sure, but it lifted Kate’s spirits.

“How could you, Mom?” Katharine was screaming. “You invaded my privacy and spied on me for months. God, you actually hired a private detective to follow me around. And you hid out down here for two days, sneaking around, checking up on me. It’s like one of those bad fifties movies that we all laugh at in film critique class.”

“Please continue, Mrs. Kennedy. What did you do on Monday before Jon Michael’s body was discovered?” Nick said, ignoring Katharine’s rant and giving Jennifer no chance to respond to it.

“I had dinner with Grace Rowling. She’s staying at Pier Sixty-six. She was very concerned about Katharine, thought the surfers might harm her, too. And Grace had discovered that Sam Meyers, aka Sam Levin, the fourth boardsman, had also been in Acapulco when Amanda disappeared, though the Mexican police have never questioned him and he never came forward.”

“Grace Rowling came to see me Monday night after Marlene and I had returned home from the pier, from seeing Jon Michael’s body.” Kate hadn’t meant to interrupt; the words had just tumbled out. “Grace told us Katharine might be in danger, and she needed to talk to her.” Without planning to, Kate had confirmed at least part of her daughter-in-law’s report about her conversation with Grace.

Jennifer sighed. “My heart breaks for Grace and I like her, but it’s obvious the woman had a motive for killing Jon Michael.”

Nick turned to Katharine. “Speaking of motives, Roberto has attributed one to you. On Sunday evening, around eight o’clock, were you at the Neptune Inn bar with Jon Michael, Roberto, and Claude?”

“Yes, I was there.” Katharine held her head high now, but her voice sounded strained. “Jon Michael and I fought about money. I’d refused to lend him any more.”

“And what else?” Nick prompted.

Kate steeled herself.

“He shouted at me,” Katharine said, her words so low Kate had trouble hearing her. “He said he didn’t need my money, anyway, that he hated my red hair and freckles, that I reminded him of Huckleberry Finn, and that I should go back to New York City where I belonged.”

“Then why did you follow him to the beach at midnight?” Nick asked.

Kate prayed, hoping Katharine wouldn’t repeat what she’d told Kate this morning: “I wanted to kill him.”

“For the same reason I visited his grandmother yesterday afternoon,” Katharine replied. “For the same reason I’ll go to his funeral. I loved him. He was no good, but I loved him. Can you understand that? You have been in love, haven’t you, Detective Carbone?”

Nick’s olive skin darkened and his eyes telegraphed an emotion Kate couldn’t read.

The phone on his desk rang. Nick picked it up and barked, “Carbone.”

Kate watched as his face crumbled into deep furrows.

“Okay, thanks.” Nick hung up. “The hotel chambermaid found Grace Rowling dead in her bathroom.”

Marlene never had
put much faith in parapsychology, though she had taken an extension course from Duke University over forty years ago during her first marriage. She’d had the lowest rank in ESP in the entire class. No hearing voices. No predictions that came true. No seeing dead people. However, she didn’t doubt that some people had seen dead men walking…and talking. People like Mary Magdalene.

She did countenance the idea of reincarnation, hoping she’d come back with Kate and at least two of her three husbands. And she’d behave better the next time around.

Though she enjoyed tarot cards and astrology, and the occasional visit to a favorite fortune teller in the Keys, she’d never consulted a medium. Now, apparently, she’d become one.

Despite Florita’s very real grief, it had soon become crystal clear that the owner of the only tanning salon/talking-head operation in South Florida not only believed in Mandrake’s ability to communicate with the world beyond, she also believed she’d been receiving messages from there, specifically from her grandson Jon Michael. Mandrake had sensed that Marlene might be a medium; however, though he regretted it, he couldn’t attend the séance.

Before testing her otherworldly skills, Marlene was sitting through a dissertation about pig’s blood, based on information garnered from a dead surfer. Marlene wished she could swallow it with something stronger than tea.

Had Florita lost her mind? How could pig’s blood be connected to Jon Michael’s death? Why wasn’t Mandrake joining them? And when had Marlene become Florita’s confidante? Based on her hostess’s miserable attitude when Marlene had left here yesterday morning, that would have required a loaves-and-fishes-size miracle.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight, Florita.” Marlene used a soothing tone, very different from her usual pitch. “Jon Michael contacted you from the grave to discuss pig’s blood.”

“Of course not,” Florita said, shaking her head. “Jon Michael’s isn’t in the grave yet. His body is at the coroner’s, but his soul is in the Light.”

“I’m confused,” Marlene said, thinking that admitting the weaknesses in her thought processing might further endear her to her hostess.

“Detective Carbone told me that Jon Michael’s shark attack might have been premeditated murder. They found traces of pig’s blood on a piece of his surfboard and on a strand of wire, too. They think his killer put the pig’s blood in a plastic bag in a small wire cage that had been attached to the bottom of Jon Michael’s surfboard, and then rigged it somehow so the blood would seep into the ocean and attract the sharks.”

Marlene’s head reeled, thinking what a diabolical way to murder someone, and what an awful way to die. “How was the cage rigged?”

“I don’t know,” Florita said, “and neither do the cops. That’s what you’re here for, Marlene.” She shook her head, the thick white hair swinging from left to right. “Mandrake told me that when you rang the bell. You have to ask Jon Michael.”

Hoping to stall that conversation, Marlene said, “Where would the killer have gotten pig’s blood? It’s not like it’s on the shelf at Publix.”

They were sitting in Florita’s kitchen, almost as clean as Kate’s and very attractive and nostalgic. The blue gingham curtains on the windows and the Norman Rockwell prints in white frames on the walls reminded Marlene of Jackson Heights in the fifties, before the world became weary and she became jaded. Marlene wondered how Florita had decorated the talking skull’s room. And she wondered where she’d stashed the Rolex and her other expensive jewelry. Maybe because she was in mourning for her grandson, Florita wasn’t wearing any.

“There are three or four religious sects in South Florida and a few witches’ covens, not to mention the devil worshippers, who use animal blood in their rituals,” Florita explained, as if talking to a child. “Several butchers in Broward County have thriving sidelines, packaging and selling chicken blood, lamb’s blood, and pig’s blood.” Her voice broke. “My grandson’s killer wouldn’t have had any problem finding and purchasing the murder weapon.” She moved the teacups off the table. “Let’s get this séance started. Jon Michael’s death must be avenged.”

“I need to use the bathroom first, Florita. Where is it?”

“Go down the center hall; it’s the second door on the right. I’ll get the candles.”

Marlene figured she had three minutes to find Mandrake and, maybe, the jewels. She was convinced if she found one, she’d find the other. And the bungalow wasn’t very big.

She took the first door to the right and walked into total darkness. Bingo. This had to be the skull’s digs. She fumbled along the wall for a light switch and found it, after working her way around three walls, feeling totally disoriented. Mandrake sat on a pedestal atop an oak table covered in a fine white linen cloth in the middle of the room. Marlene peered at him. The crystal skull, complete with deep eye sockets and crooked teeth, some of them missing, appeared heavier than twenty pounds and less ghoulish than Marlene had expected.

Except for a large armoire, there was no other furniture. The windows—Marlene had no clue which direction they faced—were draped in maroon velvet. The crystal chandelier rivaled the Phantom of the Opera’s.

Could the jewels be in the armoire? She ran across the room, yanked the cabinet open, and stared at a display of recording equipment, a veritable miniature studio, capable of producing sound effects on cue.

Marlene sensed rather than heard the door creak. Panicked, she darted back across the room, thinking she could hide behind the drapes, but in her haste she fell against the altarlike table. The skull crashed to the floor as his owner screamed, “You stupid cow!”

“Do you think
Grace was murdered?” Jennifer asked as soon as they drove away from the police station. “She’d skipped dessert at dinner last night because I said I was watching my figure. Damn, I wish Grace had ordered that blueberry torte with vanilla ice-cream.” Jennifer, sounding wistful, sighed. “I wish I had, too.”

Kate did, indeed, think Grace Rowling had been murdered, but she said nothing. A weary Nick Carbone seemed to have come to the conclusion that either Katharine or Jennifer might have killed Jon Michael. Both women had motive and opportunity, though the means—getting and placing pig’s blood in the wire cage—were murkier. Since Kate felt certain that the two deaths were connected, she’d have to sort this out, find the real killer, and clear her granddaughter and daughter-in-law.

She’d begin now. “When Grace Rowling visited me last night, she neglected to tell me she’d had dinner with you and I presume that was at your request, Jennifer. But Grace did say that she needed to talk to Katharine.” She turned to her granddaughter, sitting next to her in the front seat. “Did Grace get in touch with you after she’d left Ocean Vista?”

“No,” Katharine said, staring out the passenger-side window.

Kate heard evasion in the girl’s voice and she’d had quite enough of that. “So you’ve never had a conversation with Grace Rowling?”

Katharine squirmed, trying to inch as far away from her grandmother as possible in the small convertible.

Outside the day looked like a chamber of commerce ad: the Intercoastal Waterway sparkled as they crossed the bridge and soft white clouds dotted the pale blue sky. The top was down, the sun warmed their cheeks, and a hint of color had returned to Katharine’s face.

“Answer your grandmother,” Jennifer said, tapping her daughter’s shoulder.

Kate whipped around and glared at her daughter-in-law, who shrugged, but shut up.

“So what if I did?” Katharine kept her eyes focused on the boats in the water below them.

“No more secrets, Katharine. Nick Carbone will be asking you a lot more questions and you can’t lie or even evade. Now tell me the truth.”

Kate had come across harsher than she’d intended, but she’d remembered Katharine saying, “I wanted to kill him, Nana,” and fear motivated her, coloring her judgment.

“Okay, I’ll tell you.”

Maybe fear wasn’t such a bad motivator after all.

“By the time I got Grace Rowling’s message last night, I was already with Mom up in the Boca Hotel. She was packing to move down here and I’d just heard from Claude that Jon Michael was dead, so I didn’t call Grace back. I tried her hotel room early this morning, but there was no answer.” Katharine gulped. “Maybe she was already dead.”

“There something else, isn’t there?” Kate didn’t doubt that Katharine had told the truth…just not the whole truth.

“Yeah,” Katharine said as Kate turned onto A1A heading home.

To Kate’s amazement, Jennifer didn’t comment.

“I met Grace Rowling on Monday morning before I went to visit Florita Flannigan and her talking skull.”

So Kate now knew where her granddaughter had been yesterday, but she had no idea what had transpired. However, she’d zeroed in on the fact that Claude had called to tell Katharine about Jon Michael’s death. And, at the moment, Claude Jensen was Kate’s prime suspect.

“I hadn’t seen Jon Michael since he took off on that wave Sunday night, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” Katharine said.

Jennifer stirred in the backseat; Kate swung around, giving her a look that could kill. Jennifer sat still, saying nothing.

“Grace and I met at Pier Sixty-six; it’s very pretty there, surrounded by all that water and those beautiful yachts. We had brunch on the patio. She told me that the boardsmen were criminals, that she had evidence that could put Jon Michael, Claude, and Roberto in jail.” Katharine turned to face her mother. “Did she tell you that, too, Mom?”

Jennifer hesitated, maybe waiting for Kate’s okay, then spoke. “Not in that detail, darling. Still, Grace’s story frightened me enough that I called you right away, then checked out of the hotel and moved to Nana’s to be at your side. I’d believed Grace when she’d said the boardsmen were dangerous; she never mentioned evidence, but I’d bet it was about the drug smuggling.”

“One of them must have killed Grace,” Katharine said, catching her breath.

Kate pulled into Ocean Vista’s parking lot. “That doesn’t explain who killed Jon Michael.” Or why neither Katharine nor Jennifer had revealed these details to Nick Carbone. To be fair, the news of Grace’s death—and they hadn’t been told she’d been murdered—had stopped Nick’s interrogation midstream. Still, Kate wondered if her daughter-in-law or her granddaughter would have told him everything. Did anyone ever tell all? People forget. Or deny, even to themselves. Or color their memories to their advantage. And sometimes details or nuances honestly escape them.

The Ocean Vista
lobby festered with holiday spirit. Sunday’s pre-Halloween celebration on the beach hadn’t sated the purists. This was October 31 and by God they were going to celebrate.

Unadorned, the lobby, decorated with a hodgepodge of statues of Greek and Roman gods frolicking in a huge fountain and more marble than Michelangelo had used to carve David, overwhelmed visitors. Most of the residents had learned to live with its gaudy ostentation.

Today bad taste had risen to new heights. Literally. Hundreds of orange and black balloons, along with witches, warlocks, ghouls, goblins, and ghosts hung from the rafters. Orange and black streamers were wound around the statues of Aphrodite and all those cupids in the fountain pool, and jack-o’-lanterns glowed on every table.

About a dozen condo owners, all in costume, were drinking cider while filling their trick-or-treat bags. Would the old codgers really go knocking on doors in the neighboring condominiums?

Mary Frances Costello was dressed as Raggedy Ann, which was better than Barbie, Kate thought, and not inappropriate for a woman whose doll collection and dance costumes had taken over her apartment. Who was her Raggedy Andy? Behind that makeup lurked a young face and, even in his baggy costume, Kate could see that he was toned and buff.

“I’m going up to the apartment, Kate,” Jennifer said, heading toward the elevator. “I need to call Lauren.”

“The good sister,” Katharine said. “The one with the Lowell genes.”

Kate laughed, laughter accompanied by a pang of guilt. She’d often felt that way about Lauren herself. No question Katharine had been Charlie’s favorite granddaughter, and Kate’s, too. She wondered how much her son Kevin, just promoted to battalion chief in the New York City Fire Department, had known about Katharine’s love affair with the surfer and her mother’s relentless efforts to squash it. Very little, she’d wager.

“Kate,” Mary Frances called. “Over here!”

Kate cleared a path and walked past Batman, the Phantom of the Opera, and the Cowardly Lion to the reception desk where Miss Mitford reigned supreme. Katharine trailed behind her.

“Hi, Mary Frances,” Kate said, peering at Raggedy Andy.

“I feel as if I’m in a Monopoly game, Kate. And winning. “Look who I got out of jail.” Mary Frances giggled, gesturing toward Raggedy Andy.

“Happy Halloween, Señora Kennedy.” Roberto Romero smiled, baring those perfect teeth.